


Adamantine

by NewPipBoyWhoDis



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Loss of Virginity, Sarcasm, Shameless Smut, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-07 20:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10368918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewPipBoyWhoDis/pseuds/NewPipBoyWhoDis
Summary: Ismene has been unwillingly tasked to keep Maxson's drinking under control while he is aboard the Prydwen. Her newfound proximity could give the Rail Road the advantage they need to win the war.And if she just happens to take his virginity and fall in love while keeping him in check?Well, that's just an added bonus.





	1. Gattara

I would like to note, first of all, the cat is to blame for everything.

Like, all of the shit that happened, it was the cat. I’m an innocent. _Innocent._ I was just trying to lay low, follow orders, and be a good little soldier. I’m by no means a casual bystander, sure. I made a _few_ decisions that _possibly_ could have affected the outcome of what would later be described as the second worst disaster since the actual fallout. I’m just saying, betraying the man I love, turning against everything I held true to my heart—yeah you could place all that on the cat. Not me. Cat equals death and destruction. I am the person who just wanted to get the job done and have a nice sit.

But let me start from the beginning, I guess. Give you some context for how the cat ruined everything for everyone.

It began when the cat decided to hide from Quinlan. I always thought he was kind of an asshole anyway. The cat, that is. Although, Quinlan is an total dick, and I guess that’s why they got along so well. The swinging dick and the asshole. When the cat scratched the shit out of my face Quinlan said it happened to me for ‘snapping at him.’ Yeah, it’s _my_ fault for getting upset the cat broke some very important tech I had spent three fucking days researching. It didn’t matter. Quinlan defended that little shit and called me _irresponsible._ Irresponsible, Me. Really Quinlan? Letting that beast strut around like it owned the place was irresponsible. Obviously. It led to the death and destruction of everything. But sure, yours truly, Ismene, is to blame.

So, naturally, when the cat had been MIA for more than two days, Quinlan—apparently having no other friends—he lost it a little bit. And by a little bit I mean he visibly started to dissolve into a mess of irate, anxious stress. He abandoned all research and just kept asking if we had seen the cat. Never mind our job. Suddenly, the missing cat became the mystery of the century. We were tasked with searching for the damn feline. He gave us explicit instructions on how to coax him, his favorite spots, the importance of animal life on the Prydwen.

The whole thing came to an explosive head when Quinlan screamed at a scribe who made the mistake of asking the proctor if the cat _may_ have snuck onto the deck—insinuating it may have done a dead drop back to earth. Kells himself had to berate Quinlan for his erratic behavior and get back to focusing on the research. The next day there was a mass message sent to all of us: a reward for the cat.

I still didn’t give a damn, of course. Quinlan having a mental breakdown over the lost animal was the most entertaining thing that had happened on the Prydwen. It felt like poetic justice for all the times I found an important technical document covered in fur or when he just sneered at me for, I don’t know, existing, or whatever he found so insulting about my presence.

But then as I was walking back from a successful poker game one night I saw him—the cat. Lurking, as a cat does. And I guess I considered in my half drunken state I could do with a few extra bottlecaps. You know, for gear. Or psycho. Whichever came first.

The cat glared at me, its ear twitching with contempt. I crouched down and produced some radstag jerky I kept in my pocket. I wagged enticingly. At first, he seemed interested. He stretched casually and started creeping toward the jerky.  
  
“That’s right,” I whispered. “Come here. Come here you filthy little piece of shit.”  
  
Wrong move. As if the cat realized I insulted him, he made a sharp turn down a corridor. I swore under my breath. Ok. This was personal. Little devil was _not_ going to make a fool out of me. I stealthily raced down the corridor but the sneaky bastard vanished without a trace. Instead, I found something more unpleasant.

Elder Maxson passed out against a wall.

Well. Shit. The Elder’s alcoholism was the worst kept secret on the Prydwen. One of those understandings everyone knew but never acknowledged to his face or pretty much ever. If this were anyone else I would leave and go find the damn cat. But the Elder was supposed to be an example. If the example became get piss poor drunk and pass out anywhere my mission would never be completed. Plus, to be honest, I did feel bad for the guy. _You win this time, cat. But I’m coming for you._

I quietly approached the Elder and nudged him gently on the shoulder. He was out cold. The deck scribes would be awake in thirty minutes to perform their rounds. I needed to get him to his quarters before anyone saw him in this state.

“Elder Maxson,” I whispered loudly. “Elder. _Elder Maxson._ Hello? Arthur!” I snapped my fingers in his face. He snorted loudly his glazed eyes flickered opened. He almost dropped his head again but I caught in my hands.  
  
“Nope. We’re getting up now. Come on. Get up soldier.”  
  
The man weighed a ton. At least in comparison to me and I like to think I’m in pretty good shape. Like a puppet without strings he slowly stood using the wall and myself to prop him up.  
  
“Okay,” I sighed. “There we go. Can you walk, Elder? Can you—you know put one foot in front of the other?”  
  
He stepped clumsily forward leaning almost all his body weight on me. It would have been quite a sight, honestly. The man kept falling all over the place and we nearly crumpled to the floor more than once. He also kept mumbling under his breath, which was, to put it mildly, _rank._ I tried to keep him steady but it was like carrying a ragdoll stuffed with bricks.

Fortunately, his quarters were not far. Unfortunately: stairs. He collapsed on the first step bringing us both down. _Jesus Christ. I should have just stuck with the cat._

“Elder, get _up_ ,” I snapped irratably. “This is not that hard.”

We had to try three more times before he managed to climb up the stairs. He basically dragged himself up with the handrail and then continued using me as a physical crutch until we were through the door. Maxson stumbled over to his bed and collapsed, belly first. It was kind of sad to watch him act this way. The shining example of what every Brotherhood of Steel soldier aspired to be flopped on his mattress no better than a drunkard.  
  
I hesitated. “Well. I’m uhm . . . going to go now. Unless. . . do you need anything? A Nuka-Cola or water?”

He nodded. _Why did I even ask._ I proceeded to raid his locker trying hard not to snoop. There was one Nuka Cola, three bottles of whiskey and five bottles of vodka. How his liver hadn’t shriveled and died was a mystery to me. I grabbed the Nuka Cola and placed it next to his bed along with a packet of Med-X. It might not be the most eloquent solution but something told me he was going to need it tomorrow.

“I’m going to leave these here,” I said gently. “Do you need anything else?”

He rolled onto his back. His glazed eyes looked at me with a lonely sadness. “I’m a failure.”  
  
_Oh God, no_. This was not what I signed up for. Consoling was not exactly in my repertoire of interpersonal skills. Sarcasm, yes. Comfort? Hardly the best person. I sat beside him on the bed.  

“Look,” I began, trying to find the right words. “You had a rough night. It happens. Ok? Everyone makes mistakes. The important thing is that we _learn_ from them.” There. That was a standard, feel good response to anyone who royally fucked up.

He continued looking up at me eyes in some far away place. “I didn’t ask for this.”

I was annoyed he was feeling sorry for himself, but at the same time, I knew it wasn’t the time or place to give him a piece of my mind and tell him to man up. Mostly because he was the superior officer to end all superior officers so pissing him off while drunk would be a mistake.  
  
“We have to the best we can with the cards we’re dealt,” I told him in my most mother-ish tone.

He reached out and gently pushed my hair back. His thumb traced my jawline. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

“You’re so drunk,” I replied, fully not giving a shit anymore. I pushed his hand away from my face. He leaned back and finally closed his eyes. I stood up and pulled the boots off his feet and placed them next to the bed. He was snoring by the time I left the room.

Luckily, he would not remember any of this tomorrow, and it would be business as usual. Quinlan. The cat. Technical documents.  
  
_____________________________________________________ 

**To: Scribe Ismene**  
**From: Quinlann**

**Ismene**  
  
**Elder Maxson has requested an immediate audience at your earliest convenience.  
Please reschedule any research you planned to day and meet with him ASAP.**

 

_Fuck me._


	2. Noctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ismene and Deacon meet for the first time.

Did she blame the cat? She blamed the cat, didn’t she?

I’m not surprised. She’s always trying to shift responsibility on someone—or something—other than herself. It’s what happens when you’re raised buck wild and get in over your head. I tried that technique myself for a while. Blamed everyone but the person looking back in the mirror. A person I constantly have tried to hide, alter, forget. Running away from the world’s problems is one of the things that brought us together. 

So, I’ll take you back before shit really hit the fan. Before the damnable cat. Because when it comes to it—I’m not saying that feline is absolved of all responsibility. Just, it may not be as accountable as much as Ismene would have you believe.

Let’s take it back six months when I was scoping her out at the Third Rail.

* * *

 

A pretty little thing sitting at the edge of the bar watching Magnolia through heavy lashed eyes. Ismene was completely lost in the music. Later, when I found out her age, I felt disgusted with myself checking out her long tone legs, her messy, dirty blonde hair, and that sultry pout as she tapped her finger against the whiskey glass. In that moment, had I not been stalking her for months, you would have never convinced me she was a Brotherhood scribe. A deadly flower that bloomed in the darkness.

As it happened she was a soldier with a conscious. All her field missions required her rounding up Synths to be sent back to the Citadel for experimentation. She ended up setting them free, staging their escape as an accident. Now, the Rail Road was curious whose side she was really on. Des and Carrington had tossed around the phrase ‘potential asset.’ I preferred ‘liability’ and ‘terrible mistake’ and ‘what the fuck, you guys.’ But, there I sat. Watching her be mesmerized by Magnolia.  
  
My orders were clear: get information by any means necessary.  
Translation: possible seduction. Which at the point I didn’t mind.

I should have known it wasn’t luck or my personal charm at work when _she_ made the first move. I mean, we were the only two sitting in the bar on a Monday night. I didn’t think it was unlikely she would notice me staring at her. But she glanced over at me and smiled. A dreamy, sedated grin induced by more than just the music and alcohol. I walked up to her with a line ready. 

Instead, she ruined my plan. Something I would get used to. 

“Are you here to kill me?” she asked, holding two fingers up. The barkeep proceeded to fill her glass and another for me.  
  
I didn’t touch it. “You’re the one who’s killing me with those legs.”  
  
That wasn’t my original line. That wasn’t even a good line. That was a line reserved for forty-year-old perverts with dissatisfied wives and large waistlines. I’m surprised she didn’t tell me to fuck off.

She just skimmed the rim of her glass with her delicate finger. Thinking. “You’re either with the Institute or the Brotherhood sent you. I suppose it doesn’t matter.” She gulped down the whiskey face churning as it burned her throat. “You know, I really thought about putting up a fight. But it seems like a waste of energy at this point. What would I do? Where would I go? I’ll never be safe again.”  
  
Floored. Not a feeling I experience very often but there it was. She had noticed me. Knew I had been following her. Why I was there. And she was smart enough to assume the worst. Without even realizing it she passed the test. It was my turn to take a hearty shot. Before the whiskey went down I was sitting next to her ordering another round.

“If I was with the Institute or the Brotherhood don’t you think you’d be dead already?” I asked.

“I don’t know about the Institute,” she shrugged. “I suppose they would try and kidnap me. Make a replica and keep on the inside. But Maxson—he likes to test people. I thought maybe you were an initiate trying to prove himself to our _hallowed_ Elder. I still haven’t ruled it out. So, I thought I could hide here in Goodneighbor. Heard they don’t care much for either kind. Maybe you wouldn’t try anything.”  
  
Two for two. Okay. Maybe that asshole Carrington had been on to something with this girl. After all, she had successfully rescued the Synths without getting caught so far. She had a plan in place to hide. The barkeep put down our glasses.

“What do we toast to?” Ismene asked.

“The fact you’re not going to die just yet,” I said. “But you can’t give up.”  
  
We clinked glasses and downed the shot together. She tapped the bar for _another_ round. At this point most bartenders would be wary. Not ours. He kept them coming without question. I wasn’t sure if I could keep up but Ismene proved unstoppable.

“I think I know who you are now,” she slurred slightly. “But you need to prove it.”  
  
“Maybe you should drink some water first,” I advised.

In retaliation, she grabbed the drink meant for me and choked it down. “I don’t need water,” she snapped. “I want to know what you _want_ from me. Because I sure as hell do not trust you. Not without being somewhat sure you won't kill me.”

And in that moment I knew. I knew she could be our inside man. I knew she could be an agent for the Rail Road. And I knew she was trouble because the intensity in her eyes, the heat of her passion drew me to her like a shark to blood.  
  
So, if you really must know, the person to blame for everything is yours truly ladies and gentlemen.  
The cat however remains a close second.

 

 


	3. Alharaca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur Maxson is out played by a lowly Scribe. Twice.

Deacon might have told you I run when things get difficult. He’s right in a sense. I do run—but not away from hardship. I like to sprint toward the fire, the chaos, the inevitable doom. That’s why I joined the Brotherhood. I wanted to throw myself headlong into the danger. I just didn’t know at the time the Brotherhood _was_ the danger. They were the threat. The enemy to the Commonwealth and themselves. But I remained. Caught between two worlds.  
  
I don’t hide who I am. No glasses. No wigs. No disguises. It’s all there in the open. So being part of the Rail Road and the Brotherhood—it tore apart my very essence. I couldn’t be true to myself because I couldn’t be true to anyone. I was living a lie. My soul belonged to two factions.  
  
And my heart was ripped in half by two people.

* * *

 

Elder Maxson waited for me in the Command Deck. Seeing him gaze out the window reminded me of a princess trapped in an ivory tower. He watched his kingdom from a safe distance but never touched it. He had nowhere to go. 

“Elder Maxson. You requested an audience. Unless that was a mistake. In which case I can just see myself. . .”  
  
He turned around slowly. I could never get a good read on his face. The beard didn't help, nor did his constant scowl—or really any of his features. He’s painfully handsome but always so grim I wondered if he knew _how_ to smile. I thought of him lying on his bed, drunk, the pain in his eyes as he looked at me for comfort.

  
“Scribe Ismene,” he snapped. “It has come to my attention that you have been wandering around the Prydwen after hours. Not only that but you have engaged unauthorized recreation.”  
  
_You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._ I stared at him stoned face. So _this_ was how he wants to play it? Okay. _Let’s do this Maxson. Game on._

When I made no reply Elder Maxson continued, “Scribe, we have a strict code of ethics on the Prydwen. This isn’t a luxury cruise. We’re at war. But from what I hear you rather preoccupy yourself with card games and partying. Proctor Quinlann has sent me a report on your immature attitude in the field. It’s simply inexcusable.”  
  
“Did the report include an APB on his cat?” I asked dryly.

“This is _not_ a joke,” he snarled. Like an actual snarl from a vicious dog I would not want to pet—and I love dogs. “I could put you on probation for your behavior. Luckily for you I’ve decided to exercise some leniency. But I would suggest you refrain from doing anything that would make me change my mind. Do we understand each other, Scribe Ismene?”  
  
During his lecture he had drawn himself to his full height. He positioned himself barely an inch away from me. It was, of course, a power posture men use to appear more imposing. Instead of responding immediately I stepped back away from him to the table of liquor by the couch. I opened the nearest whiskey and began pouring a glass.

“Did you want one, Elder?” I offered. “Or have you already started today?”  
  
His face reddened. “You are way out of line, Scribe.”  
  
“I’ll take that as a no.”  
  
Taking the glass I sat on the couch and rested my head back on the cushion. I felt his eyes bore into me but I honestly didn’t care at that point. Intimidation stopped working on me a long time ago. Besides, I had him. I caught him in the act. I had the opportunity to ruin his reputation. His upper hand was simply a matter of rank superiority. And you know what? I don’t give a fuck about ranks. But then I kept seeing those eyes—full of pain. Shame. _I’m a failure._

“Are you familiar with John Locke, Elder Maxson?” I asked. Before he could reply I continued, “He’s a philosopher from the pre-war era. Way, way, back pre-war era. He had an idea about human nature called Tabula rasa. He says we're born a blank slate. We have nothing in our hearts and minds. The moment we come into this earth we’re an empty vessel waiting to be filled with endless potential.”  
  
I drained the whiskey watching him carefully out of the corner of my eye. He was still eyeing me with the same intensity but it had transferred from anger to—something else. A hesitant interest.   
  
I kept going. “Perhaps you think you never had a choice in the matter to become the leader of the Brotherhood. But I believe every man has free will. And I believe you freely chose to become Elder Maxson. You make that choice every single day. When you wake up, and you put on your coat, and when you walk around this ship—you are choosing to be an Elder. To be a leader. And you are also choosing what kind of leader you want to be.”

“Is there a point to all this?” he asked. I noted the quiet severity to his tone.

Apparently, Deacon was right—only nerds like me were interested in pre-war philosophy and I was the only nerd like me in existence.

I walked over to the table and downed another shot of whiskey before going on.

“My _point_ is that you can be a leader who uses intimidation and threats to bully his crew into doing what he wants. Or you can ask me with some respect to show discretion about finding you passed out the other night. Since that is obviously what we’re talking about.”

“I am your Elder, _Scribe,_ ” he seethed. “I don’t _ask_ you to do anything. I _give_ you an order and you _follow_ it. Without question. Without this pointless lecturing.”

I gazed into his face. I wondered when the last time one of his subordinates had challenged him. All of these Brotherhood types worshipped the ground he walked on—sometimes literally. What would his soldiers think if they saw him last night? Would they have turned their back on him? Thought less of him? Was that what he was really afraid of? Losing his status?

“You’re dangerously close to being thrown off this ship,” Maxson threatened. “Your next words should be ‘Yes, Elder I understand.’ “ 

I should have been brimming with anger at his attitude. Instead—my heart ached for him. My stupid, stupid heart. 

Coupled by my stupid, stupid brain. “I will never tell anyone,” I said. “Every person on this ship looks up to you. They need you to be strong. To be—held to a higher standard. And I—I don’t _choose_ to use someone’s weakness to hurt them. And I certainly would never threaten someone to secrecy because I was too insecure to show common decency. But I suppose that’s the kind of leader you’ve chosen to be. So, _Yes Elder._ I understand. Ad Victorium, _Elder_.”  
  
Did I make ‘Ad Victorium’ sound like ‘fuck you?’ Yes. Yes I did. I mic dropped out of that bitch without a single fuck left to give.  
  
And then I realized I made an enemy with the biggest threat to the Rail Road instantly regretting the whole conversation and pretty much everything ever.

Damn you Quinlan’s cat. 

* * *

 

At precisely 2:47 a.m. someone knocked on my door.

I knew the exact time because the Ghost of Poor Choices that haunted me at night liked to keep my eyes pried open. Sleeplessness was his favorite form of torture. Instead of staring at the bleak darkness I watched the minutes inch toward dawn. I replayed the argument between Maxson and I over and over in my head. _What were you thinking? You’re supposed to be an undercover agent. Not painting a target on your back. Why don’t you just go ahead and point to HQ?_ I could feel Carrington’s disapproval all the way from Old North Church. Somehow, he knew I fucked up. I knew Deacon would be disappointed. . . not that we were talking at the moment.

The person knocked again.  
  
“Go away!” I shouted.  
  
“Scribe Ismene.”  
  
Holy. Shit. I quickly wrapped the patched comforter around me like a cloak and ran to the door opening it just a crack. Elder Maxson stood on the other side. “Isn’t it a bit late to be wandering around the ship, Elder? Wouldn’t want to get reprimanded.”

  
_GOOD. FEED ME WITH YOUR BAD LIFE CHOICES. IT ONLY MAKES ME STRONGER,_ the Ghost of Poor Choices cackled. Even after a self-discussion about _not_ drawing attention to myself what do I do? The thing. The THING I shouldn’t be doing right now. 

“Permission to enter, Scribe.” I could smell the whiskey heavy on his breath but at least he was speaking in complete sentences. And standing—for time being.  
  
Hesitantly, I opened the door. Maxson casually strode into my humble quarters and sat on the desk chair as if he owned the place, which I guess he kind of did. I felt painfully exposed. All my fatigues were being washed. I was down to the shirt and panties hidden under my blanket.

“I wanted to apologize for my behavior,” he said. His speech a little slow. “It was me—not you—that was out of line. I. . . was worried you might . . .”

“I told you I would never do that,” I replied firmly. “All I wanted was to make sure you got back to your quarters before some frat guy took advantage of you.”  
  
Maxson was too drunk, or the reference was lost on him or—God forbid—I wasn’t really _that_ funny, but he didn’t react. Instead, he grabbed a flask out of his coat pocket.

“NO!” I shouted snatching the container out of his hand. “No offense Elder—and you can toss me off the flight deck tomorrow—but you’ve had enough. Just. Sit here for a moment. I have some purified water.”

I handed him the water from one of my storage boxes. With a brief moment of stubborn hesitation he grabbed the water and took a sip.

How does one describe the awkward silence between a half naked Scribe and her semi-drunk Elder? Tense? Painful? Unwanted? All words that describe uncomfortable human interaction? I had nothing in common with this man except for the fact that—no. Nothing. I got nothing.

Elder Maxson cleared his throat the age-old sign of ‘I’m going to attempt small talk because I am not comfortable in silence and this is getting weird’.

“So,” he began. “Why are you interested in pre-war historic figures?”  
  
I took a swig from his own flask. If he got to be slightly buzzed so did I. “It’s my belief that in order to understand the technology we’re collecting we also have to understand the historical context in which it was made,” I explained. “The reason behind why people built it and how it became destructive. You don’t want the mistakes of the past repeated? By understanding human nature we can avoid those pitfalls. Asking the big questions. Like with the Institute. Why create humanlike Synths? If they wanted a subservient army they could have stuck with Gen 1’s. So, infiltration? Eugenics? A kind of twisted slavery? What is the purpose? And you might not think any of those questions will matter once they’re destroyed. But dropping a bomb doesn’t stop ideas. It doesn’t stop human nature from continuing. Finding better answers for the future—I think that’s the real battle.”  
  
I realized all too late I had been ranting. I opened my mouth again but the look on Maxson’s face stopped me. It was as if he was really seeing _me_ for the first time. Not a Scribe, not a soldier, or someone to yell at . . . but a person. I suddenly became aware of how naked I was under my blanket. 

“Who are you?” he asked. I realized what he meant by his question. Not superficially—he wanted to know what was inside—something deeper. He was reaching for my heart.   
  
A very dangerous place for him to be.

“You should go now, Elder Maxson,” I replied. “Thank you for the apology. Take the water with you.”

I opened the door. Wordlessly, he stood and made his exit. I couldn’t make eye contact with him as he left my room but as soon as I shut the door I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I fell on my bed wrapped tightly in my comforter. In less than two hours I was to report to Proctor Ingram to help with power armor repairs before going to Quinlan to analyze technical documents. But I knew sleep would prove elusive. My brain was in overdrive. It was inappropriate—the whole thing, not even just by Brotherhood standards. And yet, I continued to let him walk in and out. To play this—weird game with his head. I realized I was still clutching his flask. I took another swig and stared at the clock.  
  
The Ghost of Poor Choices made his entrance. _Well hello old friend. Want to stay up and discuss how you’ve managed to attract the one man who could destroy the Rail Road? Don’t worry. Take your time._

 


	4. Entelechy

Did I sleep? Maybe. Some nights it’s hard to tell if I actually got rest or if my eyes just happened to be closed while the old brain reeled a mile a minute. No matter what, I kept seeing Arthur’s face. I kept wondering—fantasizing if I’m being honest—what would have happened if he stayed.

I rolled out of bed, putting one foot in front of the other in an automatic succession of movement that felt normal for the time of day. As I shuffled down to the laundry room I caught a glimpse of myself in a thick mirror. Gone was the mangy Wastelander picking off the scraps of dead raiders like a starved vulture. The Brotherhood toned my muscles, gave definition to my arms, waist, and legs. Yet my father’s calculating eyes glinted daringly back at me, the color of moss in the deep woods. Everything else belonged to my mother. Unruly hair. Full eyebrows. High cheekbones. Crooked nose. A butt Bell Biv DeVoe warned you about. I retreated down the hallway.

Genetics. The only heirlooms I had left of my family. 

I methodically put on my Scribe gear before going to check in with Proctor Ingram. To be honest—despite my personal feelings about the Brotherhood—I deeply admired Ingram. To rise as an esteemed Brotherhood Proctor being both a woman and physically disabled must have been no small feat. Furthermore, Proctor Ingram _respected_ me, a word completely lost on Quinlan. As much as I loved poring over tedious technical documents from a bygone age I prefered modifying Power Armour and working with the Prydwen—those tasks gave me a sense of purpose.

As if to drive home my point home I heard the two Proctors quarreling inside Ingram’s station. I paused, just out of sight behind a stack of ammo boxes.

“. . . I need her more than you do, Quinlan,” Proctor Ingram was saying. “She’s one of two Scribes I trust to handle any _real_ maintenance issues without having to babysit them 24/7. Plus I want her on the _team._ ” She emphasized the word ‘team’ cryptically. Out of character for Ingram to be indirect.

“Absolutely not,” Quinlan snapped. “I may not like the girl on a personal level but . . . at least she’s thorough. If nothing else.”  
  
_Thank you Quinlan for that extraordinary vote of confidence. I’ll remember that the next time I see your cat._

Ingram snorted. “If nothing else? _The girl_? Scribe Ismene might be eighteen but she is hardly _just a girl._ She was in the running to be the field scribe for Recon Squad Gladius—only two months after finishing her Aspirant training with the highest score in _recent_ Brotherhood history. So, yeah If nothing else I want her on _my team_ full time now.”

Quinlan sighed, cleaning off his glasses. It was his frustration tick. “Oh yes. I’ve read her report. Ismene may be smart, yes. Brightest Scribe of our age. But she’s . . . undedicated. She’s not focused on our mission. And frankly her attitude is deplorable. I've heard rumors about her behavior. Have you spoken to Elder Maxson about this?”  
  
“I didn’t think I was going to have to speak to anyone,” Ingram replied. “But I will inconvenience the Elder if I have to get her to work with me full time.”

I decided it was time to come out of hiding. I stepped into the light and both Proctors looked up at me—Quinlan with his usual disdain and Ingram with her seemingly cold indifference.

“I love overhearing conversations about me when I’m not present to defend myself. I especially like the _undedicated_ part.”

I glared at Quinlan. All the rage and lack of sleep and boiled to the surface. “After all the effort I’ve put in for you, Proctor Quinlan. All I can say is. . . what the fuck. I have deciphered, decoded, and decrypted more documentation on your tech than probably all the scribes at your disposal put together. Countless hours. And you treat me like trash. But I continue to work. Uncomplainingly. Now you want to say I’m undedicated? You want to talk about my _attitude_? Fine. Let’s give that criticism some merit, shall we?”

 Proctor Ingram held up her hand. “Ismene wait—”

I spat on the ground. “Fuck. You. Quinlan. Fuck you. Fuck you! Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ you. At least I have the courage to say it to your face.”

Quinlan winced in disgust. “You’ve just received an official write-up, Scribe. One that the Elder _and_ Kells will receive immediately.” His glare turned to Proctor Ingram. “She’s all yours, Proctor. While you can still use her.”  
  
The disgruntled proctor marched away. “No wonder your cat left you!” I yelled at his back. I swear, I saw him walk a little faster.

* * *

“Seriously. You look like shit.”

  
Proctor Ingram stood over me with her arms crossed as I repaired the left leg of a Knight’s power armor. I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Maxson again. _How would this conversation go_ , I wondered, as I welded a joint into place. _Maybe if it ended in another late night visit I could just blow him to keep my position. How many times has that happened? Would that be the worst punishment in the world?_

 _Certainly give us something to talk about,_ the Ghost of Poor Choices chimed.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on?” Ingram demanded, cutting off my thoughts. “I’ve never seen you so—well so _you_ in front of other people.”  
  
“Everyone has their limit,” I replied warily.

“Didn’t think Quinlan had it in him to push you over. God knows we have enough to worry about without him tattling. Did you have to spit on him?”  
  
“Ingram, I didn’t spit _on_ him,” I sighed.  
  
“You should have. Would have made it worth the trouble. Not that I think anything will come of it.”  
  
_Or maybe something will,_ I thought as Elder Maxson approached us. While my fellow brothers and sisters stood and saluted—with what can only be described in worship of his presence—Proctor Ingram swore sharply under her breath. 

“Let me handle him,” she said quietly as Maxson came to a stop. Little did she know I did have some leverage. _What leverage would that be? His drinking? Coming to your quarters? Or . . . something else?_  

“Proctor,” Maxson saluted. “I need a word with Scribe Ismene.”  
  
Ingram didn’t hesitate. “Whatever Quinlan said in his report was most likely exaggerated. I was there. I can testify on Scribe Ismene’s behalf. Her improper behavior was a result of months of mistreatment on _his_ part. In fact, I would like to request in a formal investigation.” 

Maxson’s brow furrowed. “I haven’t received a report from Quinlan about Scribe Ismene. I needed to debrief her on a document.”  
  
She and I both looked at each other. “Well. Cat’s out of the bag now,” I muttered, dusting off my uniform. “Has been for some time I suppose.”

“Christ,” Ingram sighed. 

I followed Maxson. This time, we didn’t proceed to the Command Deck. He led me to his quarters. I stopped short. Half of my fellow Scribes saw us leave the Main Deck together. I didn’t want rumors swirling around about our relationship. Shouldn’t he be mindful of that fact?  
  
He turned and saw me standing in front of the entrance as if there were a force field. “It’s not unusual for me to have private conversations in here with Knights and Scribes,” he assured me. “But if you prefer. . .”  
  
“No,” I sighed. _Fuck what anyone thinks of me, right Ghost of Poor Choices? Up top._  

I closed the door behind me more out of habit than anything else. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing as I collapsed into one of the chairs.

“I’m going to safely assume there is no document, Elder.”  
  
“Actually, Scribe Ismene there is. Can you tell me anything about this?”

He handed me a folder. As I flipped through the contents, Maxson sat on the opposite side of the table. Almost instinctively he reached for a bottle of whiskey—and then hesitated. He looked at me cautiously and drew his hand slowly back as if I had made him suddenly aware of what he was doing. I quickly looked back down at the document forcing my tired brain to focus. _You’re a dedicate soldier. Dedicated. YOU HEAR THAT QUINLAN? Nothing can distract me._

 “Yes. Sentinel Site Prescott in the Glowing Sea. Lovely little area.” I scanned the pages. “I believe I found the coordinates some time ago along with some terminal entries. The last report I read the Children of the Atom were using the site as some sort of—homage to Atom or whatever. Specifically, it has—”

 Something clicked. _  
  
My team.  
A secret team. It had to be a secret project.  
__MK-28.  
__Those were the missiles used for—_

“Liberty Prime.”  
  
Elder Maxson scowled. “What did you just say, Scribe? What has Proctor Ingram told you?”  
  
“She told me nothing,” I said quietly, re-reading the documents. “It just makes sense. The extra security around the airport. Her _team_. All those parts—and now this. The nukes. You’re rebuilding Liberty Prime to fight the Institute.” 

He searched my face carefully. A strange smirk teased his lips. “So. I was right.” 

My eyebrow twitched. “About . . .?”  
  
“Quinlan _did_ send me a report,” Maxson confessed, although he hardly seemed displeased. In fact, he leaned back in his chair his eyes—well his eyes actually doing something other than glaring or being dulled by alcohol for a change. “He said you were not Broterhood material. However, after you and I had our recent conversations . . .I thought differently. I wanted to prove him wrong. This was a test. To see if you had been paying attention. Piece it all together. . . if you hadn’t already.”  
  
I stared at Maxson blankly. “A test. . .to what end?”

“I want you on the team to rebuild Liberty Prime.”

“. . . Oh.”  
  
“Are you not pleased?” he asked, the usual edge coming back into his voice.  
  
I shrugged. “It just seems anticlimactic. I should have been on the team to begin with, you know? I didn’t need a test to prove anything. To anyone. If I’m good enough I’m good enough. Ingram seems to recognize that. Why can’t you?”

I realized all too late the room had grown tense. Elder Maxson peered at me, his face unreadable. _Why do I keeping pushing it with him? Oh God . . . am I turning into a Quinlan? Why did I keep doing this?_

“Do you think your arrogance is charming?” he asked, his voice low. Husky. 

_That might be why._

For the first time I found my thoughts too convoluted to give an immediate answer. A rarity, when you are. . . How did Quinlan put it? _The brightest Scribe of our age_. “I have been told I can be difficult. But I don’t need criticism on arrogance from someone who has a Bible written for them in the terminal.”

“I didn’t write that,” he snapped. “And no—I didn’t ask to have it written about me either.” He leaned back in his chair his previous mirth gone. “But you’re right. I shouldn’t have toyed with you. You deserved to be on that team long before this. And you don’t need to waste any more time with Quinlan.”  
  
“Thank you!” I shouted throwing my hands in the air. It was like I had been _freed_. No—it wasn’t like anything. I had been freed. I would have offered a toast to celebrate but knowing Maxson a drink would turn into a two week long bender. Although, that actually could be fun. . .

“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask of you,” he said hesitantly. “I’ve thought a lot about what you said. About how we choose to be someone. I haven’t been. . .the leader I want to be.” I gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. “It was inappropriate. To visit you last night. To . . .threaten you when you found me like that. But I also enjoy talking to you. I didn’t realize how badly I needed someone just to be honest with me. You’re right. The soldiers—well, while I expect a certain amount respect . . ."  
  
“It’s like they uncomfortably revere you,” I finished for him.

“See? You don’t hold back. You’re . . . a little mean. And very challenging. It’s more than a distraction from this,” he gestured at the bottles. “What I’m trying to ask, Scribe. . ." he sighed heavily gently tapping his knuckles on the table. "I want to know if you will accompany me to dinner."  
  
I blinked several times. “Say what now?”


	5. Whelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello beautiful people. Two chapters in a week - I know. Crazy. And a companion story to go along with this one . . . it never stops. Also, I made Ismene a character portrait because she is my absolute favorite. Enjoy!

[Ismene Character Portrait](https://imgur.com/a/1PTKS)

* * *

_He’s sitting next to his power armor. Of course, the night before he leaves, he would be here instead of his quarters. I almost lose my nerve to approach him. But then he turns to me. As if he knew all along we would find each other._

_“Paladin Danse. . .”_  
  
I didn’t know how to start. From the beginning? When we played that ridiculous team building catch the flag game and I outsmarted his squad? Or when we went on a recon mission together in the Capital? When we stood outside of the Prydwen and he gently took my hand because I was afraid . . .

_What is the name of a coward—of someone who only speaks when it is far too late to mean anything?_

* * *

“Scribe Ismene.”

Gradually, my brain reoriented itself to the world.

 I slowly lifted my head off the dense and very dry manual of Liberty Prime. To my horror a small puddled of drool was smeared on my cheek and the page. My shorthand notes were scattered on the desk in no particular order. If you could even call them notes. Some scraps of paper were just mindless doodles I conjured out of frustration. I shuffled them together to make myself—what is it?— _professional._

Before I had a chance to defend myself Proctor Ingram held her strong hand up.

“First of all I want you to know that since you’ve joined our team we’ve made twice the progress we normally would have with the documentation and technology of Liberty Prime.” 

_Fuck. A compliment from Ingram? I must be in serious trouble._

She continued. “But in the last ninety six hours it has come to my attention you have not rested. Not really. Except . . . on this stiff chair. Drooling on invaluable documents. So I am ordering you Scribe Ismene to take a fucking break.”

“It’s fine,” I rasped. “All my faculties are present. I was just making notes about the. . . uhm . . .thing attaching to the.. . . other part of the . . ." 

“You were just about to take four days leave. As ordered by your commanding officer, Scribe Ismene.” She looked squarely into my eyes, jaw set. “You’re too valuable of an asset to be rendered useless this early in the stages of Liberty Prime’s reconstruction. I know how you are. But you have to think of the Bortherhood as a whole . . .and we can handle things for a while.” 

I tried to reply but a yawned ached out of my mouth. My eyes actually dozed off again. Reluctantly, I nodded at Proctor Ingram. “Maybe. . . I could use a short nap.”  
  
“I’m glad we agree on something,” she sighed. “By the way . . . I thought you should hear it from me first.” If Ingram could shuffle uncomfortably, she might have afforded herself the luxury. Instead, the Proctor settled for staring at the ground. “Paladin Danse is back from his Recon mission.”

A long silence followed.

“You know. I’ve been meaning to visit my sister,” I said casually.  
  
“Uh huh. The sister we have no record of existing? Who has been dying for the past two years? Who has conveniently lived within proximity of the Prydwen despite her ailing state?”  
  
I stacked the documents on the corner of my workstation. “The very one.”  
  
Ingram placed a hand on my shoulder. “You can’t run forever.”  
  
Oh. But how I could.

* * *

 

If I left within the hour I could catch a Vertibird to Cambridge. Goodneighbor was only a three hour hike at which point I could make contact with. . . no one of concern. The whole journey could until the next day, of course. But when I saw Paladin Danse in the Mess Hall it was as if I had taken a double dose of Jet. The world around us came to screeching halt. He saw me walk in his direction. I wanted to leap into his burly arms. I wanted to kiss him again and then stab him in the jugular.  
  
I kept moving to my quarters without a word or another glance in his direction. He didn’t try to stop me.  
  
_I trusted you. I respected you. I could have loved you. But you killed my best friend. And I don’t know if I could forgive you._

Had Danse administered the killing dose himself I could have challenged his authority on the matter. Faced him off in a duel. But it was Scribe Haylen who gave Worwick the painkillers. My stomach turned at the thought of her putting the needle in his arm . . . watching him die.

_I could have been there. I could have stopped them._

The report stated that his quality of life would have been diminished. He would never walk again even if he survived—and those chances were nonexistent. Knight Baxter—damn that trifling bitch—received his holotags. But I had something better. His camera. He specifically asked I inherit in case the worst happened. I had the picture of Rhys, Worwick, and myself laughing over the poker table. On the far left Rhys looked thoroughly incensed at his losses. Worwick sat in the middle wearing his best shit-eating grin. And myself, on the far right, drunk as a skunk, laughing.

Those days were done.

 So, yeah. At Proctor Ingram’s behest I decided ‘to visit my sister’ for some much needed rest. _You’re going to need the rest for the dinner,_ The Ghost of Poor Choices reminded me.

 Oh. I didn’t forget about the dinner. I said yes to dinner. But it’s not what you think. It’s not even when I thought it would be: candle light Yao Gui steaks followed by rough fucking. Because naturally that’s where my brain thought this was leading to, obviously, and nothing within the realm of rational.

 Yet, Arthur had a tale as old as time: ambitious leader courted by some broad whose family wanted influence over the largest military force in the country. A story of true love. Romance of the Century. A genuine Ross/Rachel or Henry VIII/Anne Boelyn situation. Will they? Won’t they? Is there a beheading or betrothal? No one knows; not even Elder Maxson, who sat across from me, rubbing his forehead in exasperation. I guess the prospect of marrying a beautiful woman from an influential family was just too much for his mind handle. Poor him.

 “Why can’t you explain you’re in the middle of a fucking war?” I asked in one of the many moments of lapsed judgment I had around this ridiculous human being. With his ridiculous coat. And his even more ridiculous beard. And my ridiculous, unwarranted feelings toward him established on nothing more than a hand full of conversations.  
  
Thankfully, the Elder didn’t seem to mind.

 “It’s a complicated situation,” he answered. “I didn’t expect for Recon Gladius to find the Institute so quickly. When they did. . .”

 “You hightailed it to the Commonwealth to avoid—sorry what was her name?”

 “Lyla Colvin,” he sighed.

 I made a slight face of disgust. “So, her family just expects to tap dance their way down here and use Lyla to seduce you into power?”

 Maxson shot me a pointed glare. “Like I said. It’s more. . . complicated. But I would appreciate your presence. If you’re willing to join us.”  
  
Who was I to say no to the Elder? A mere Scribe. Not the informant of the Rail Road. Not a woman who seduced a straight laced Paladin. I was certainly not a threat to someone as devoted as Lyla Colvin. Or someone capable of bringing both factions down with a single decision; a decision I made based on nothing more than the intensity in Arthur’s eyes.

Right. Who am I kidding? Of course I did all of those things. I never leave my boy the Ghost of Poor Choices hanging.


End file.
